Thir breeks o mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush, o guid blue hair,

I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies,

For ae blink o the bonie burdies!

But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

Louping and flinging on a crummock,

I wonder didna turn thy stomach!

But Tam kend what was what fu brawlie,

There was ae winsome wench and wawlie,

That night enlisted in the core,

(Lang after kend on Carrick shore

For monie a beast to dead she shot,

An perish’d monie a bonie boat,

And shook baith meikle corn and bear,

And kept the country-side in fear:)

Her cutty sark, o Paisley harn,

That while a lassie she had worn,

In longitude tho sorely scanty,

It was her best, and she was vauntie. –

Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,

That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,

Wi twa pund Scots (twas a’ her riches),

Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour,

Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r;

To sing how Nannie lap and flang

(A souple jade she was and strang),

And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch’d,

And thought his very een enrich’d;

Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu fain,

And hotch’d and blew wi might and main:

Till first ae caper, syne anither,

Tam tint his reason a’ thegither,

And roars out, ‘Weel done, Cutty-sark!’

And in an instant all was dark:

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi angry fyke,

When plundering herds assail their byke,

As open pussie’s mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;

As eager runs the market-crowd,

When ‘Catch the thief!’ resounds aloud:

So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

Wi monie an eldritch skriech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin!

In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin!

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!

Kate soon will be a woefu woman!

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,

And win the key-stane of the brig;

There, at them thou thy tail may toss,

A running stream they dare na cross!

But ere the key-stane she could make,

The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie, far before the rest,

Hard upon noble Maggie prest,

And flew at Tam wi furious ettle;

But little wist she Maggie’s mettle –

Ae spring brought off her master hale,

But left behind her ain grey tail:

The carlin claught her by the rump,

An left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o truth shall read,

Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed:

Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d,

Or cutty sarks run in your mind,

Think! ye may buy the joys o’er dear:

Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.

RELIGIOUS
SENTIMENT
AND SATIRE

A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause

Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,